And Death Shall Have No Dominion
by ForeverShippingJohnlock
Summary: Castiel Novak is a zombie, or rather a "partially deceased syndrome sufferer". Treated and on medication, he is free to return to society. Dean Winchester is a member of the Human Volunteer Force, a group determined to eliminate the undead. The two boys form an unlikely friendship, making Dean question his beliefs and making Castiel think that his second life might be worth living.
1. Chapter One

Chapter One

"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"

– Edgar Allan Poe

_Fear. _

_That's the first thing he feels when he awakens. Why is he awake? He _shouldn't _be awake. He starts to feel an overwhelming sense of _wrongness. _He blinks a few times slowly and then realizes that it makes no difference whether his eyes are opened or closed because all there is is darkness, a darkness so complete that he feels anxiety and panic start to claw mercilessly at his chest. He needs to get _out.

_He tries to sit up, but his head hits something hard, blocking his attempts to move from his current lying position. His hands scrabble along the edges of his confinement, trying to find some way of escape. He pushes and pushes and pushes, and finally, against all odds, the top of his confinement gives way ever so slightly._

_He's filled with the knowledge that the only way out is up. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he does. It's instinctual. _

_He begins pushing, the weight sitting on the top pushing back twice as hard, making the task almost impossible to surmount, but he keeps going. He _has _to keep going. _

_As he pushes, his arms shaking with effort, the lid begins to open. Dirt slides through the opening, raining down on him, but still he keeps going until the lid is all the way open. He's completely buried with dirt now, but it doesn't matter. He starts to climb and crawl his way out. The dirt stings his eyes, fills his lungs, but he won't be stopped. Something has started to take over him, more demanding than the fear and the panic, but he cannot put a name to it yet. _

_After what could be hours, days, weeks, he doesn't know, he finally surfaces. He coughs, expelling the dirt from his lungs, and groans. He looks around and sees others like him, bodies escaping their underground confines. It's still dark outside, but he sees lights in the distance. He starts to move, shuffling slowly towards them, along with the others. _

_The sensation taking him over increases, clawing at his insides desperately, and he lets out a long, guttural groan, seemingly incapable of much else. Just then, he realizes what this insatiable, raw _need _that demands to be satisfied is. _

_Hunger._

Castiel opens his eyes, breathing hard. He sits up in his small white bed, surveying his room, reminding himself that he's not trapped in a coffin, nor will he ever be again. The room is what you'd expect of a hospital, clean, clinical, and devoid of personality. There's no various knick-knacks or posters of any kind that would normally identify a boy of eighteen. Its furnishings are sparse, with only a bed, a dresser with an attached mirror, a chair by the window, and a cross on the wall (Castiel almost wants to laugh at the irony of that).

Just then, a nurse comes in.

"Ah, good! You're already up! So–", a quick consult of her clipboard, "–Castiel, ready for the big day?" she asks, giving him a bright smile. Castiel tries to return it, but can only manage what probably looks more like a grimace than a smile.

"As I'll ever be," he says quietly.

"Good to hear it! Now up and at 'em, it's time for your medication!" she replies, before thankfully taking her leave.

During his stay here, Castiel has discovered that there are two types of nurses; the first, ones who are grumpy and cold and who are clearly just in it for a paycheck, and the second, overly chipper and perky busybodies full of false smiles. He hasn't really decided which is worse, but he's leaning towards the latter.

Castiel swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands up, making his way out into the hallway. He walks along slowly and joins the rest of the crowd. He doesn't like walking in big groups like this. It's depressing, everyone's heads looking down, not one person with an ounce of spring in their step. As he walks, he takes deep breaths, trying to prepare himself for today. The big day.

The day he gets to leave the Kansas Treatment Centre for Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers.

Even now, he rolls his eyes at the ridiculous name. The centre doesn't encourage words like "zombie", or "rotter" as some have taken to calling them. "PDS sufferers" is now the politically correct term. Castiel personally prefers the term "undead". It lacks some of the negative connotations of the other unsavory options, but it's not sugar coated either. Although, he supposes he can understand why the government would want to use their term. It sounds manageable.

And manageable is exactly what they need as they rehabilitate the undead back into living society.

Castiel continues to shuffle along, the crowd naturally forming a line as they come to an eventual halt outside one of the many rooms, each waiting for their daily dose of neurotriptyline to be administered. Without it, they would revert back to their original rabidity, or as the doctor's prefer to call it, their "untreated state". If they miss even one day of medication… Castiel shudders at the mere thought of it. He never wants to be like that again. All those innocent people… What he did to them...

Castiel cuts off that train of thought immediately.

He continues to wait in the incredibly long line, inching forward every few minutes at each monotone call of "next", until it's finally his turn.

The doctor asks him a few routine questions – which Castiel answers with as few words as possible – before picking up what can only be described as a medication gun. The doctor inserts a vial of neurotriptyline into the device and gets behind Castiel. The device is then inserted into a small, grotesque hole located under the back of his neck, right between the first and second vertebrae. He knows the injection is coming, but he still squeezes his eyes shut and hisses as the doctor pulls the trigger. It's not necessarily with pain – he doesn't feel pain anymore – but more the brief onslaught of emotions and the sudden jolt of memories he doesn't want to remember.

And just as quickly as it started, it's over, and he's sent on his way.

Next up in the routine is group therapy, which is about as exciting as it sounds, that is to say, not at all. Castiel loathes group therapy. Even before he died, he was a bit of an introvert, never talking much, but now he barely speaks at all if he can help it.

He makes his way to the large hall where the group therapy is held, picking a random empty chair amongst the many groups, about six or seven per. The discussion leader waits a few minutes as more people file in, and then starts up.

"So. How are we all feeling today? Excited? Nervous?" he says, rubbing his hands together, like he's eager to get started.

A redhead seated beside Castiel timidly raises her hand, introducing herself as Anna, and talks about how she's looking forward to seeing her parents again while the discussion leader nods sympathetically, like he knows exactly what she's feeling (though anyone with a beating heart couldn't possibly have any idea). It continues on like that for a while, everyone taking turns around the circle until the only one who hasn't yet spoken is Castiel.

"How about you?" the discussion leader asks expectantly and it takes a moment for Castiel to realize it's him who's being addressed.

"Oh, um, hello, my name is Castiel and I am a PDS sufferer," he says, going through the standard introduction, the group intoning the typical "Hi, Castiel" in response.

"And how are you feeling about today, Castiel?" the discussion leader asks. Castiel shrugs, but everyone keeps waiting for him to open up more so he takes a breath and speaks.

"I feel nervous, I suppose. And a bit sad maybe," he says.

"And why is that?"

"Nervous because the thought of going back into society seems daunting and I'm afraid I'm not going to know how to live 'a normal life' anymore."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Castiel. It will take some getting used to, but just give it time and I'm sure it'll feel just as it used to." The discussion leader pauses a moment before continuing, "You also mentioned something about feeling sad…?"

"Sad because… because I have no one to go home to," Castiel replies slowly, keeping his eyes downcast.

"Oh… I'm sorry to hear that. Well, look on the bright side, maybe you'll make some new friends."

Castiel has to fight back the urge to snort in disbelief. He nods instead, pretending to look hopeful so the discussion leader will move on to his next victim (which he thankfully does).

After a while, the group therapy session is over and they depart. Castiel is grateful that at the end of a session they don't have to say anything like "living our best second life today", or some other equally stupid phrase.

Normally, this would be the time where Castiel would go back to his room and pass the time by counting ceiling tiles and mentally reciting poems and quotes that he's memorized until he eventually falls asleep, but today is different. He once more follows the crowd to their new destination.

In another one of the large halls, everyone lines up again. However, this time, it isn't a doctor who awaits them, but a man at a desk.

"Blue, green, or brown?" the bored sounding man asks Castiel when it's his turn.

"Sorry?" Castiel asks, confused. The man rolls his eyes.

"Your eyes. What colour were your eyes before you died?" the man replies, seemingly annoyed.

"Oh, blue. They were blue," Castiel says, before he's handed two small boxes.

"Contacts and cover-up. _Next!_"

Castiel makes his way back to his room and flops down on his bed, breathing a sigh of relief. He picks up the packages and opens them, tossing the empty boxes aside. He toys with them, glancing at his dresser with its adjoining mirror, before getting up and slowly making his way towards it. He closes his eyes tightly as he turns to face the mirror directly. He tries to avoid the mirror whenever possible, but he can't put on his cover-up without it. He slowly starts to open his eyes.

And comes face to face with the monster staring back at him.

His skin is a sickly gray, his dark hair in greasy disarray, but it's his eyes that really make him cringe. His once blue irises are replaced with a milky white colour, making them blend in with the rest of his eye. His pupils are still black, but they're not round anymore; they have jagged, pointed edges to them so that they look more like some kind of star shape.

Just for the hell of it, Castiel tries out one of the many affirmations the centre had taught them.

"I am a partially deceased syndrome sufferer and anything I did in my untreated state was not my fault," he says, and immediately feels ridiculous. Saying the words doesn't make it true, and it certainly doesn't make the crippling guilt go away.

Not wanting to drag this process out any further, Castiel exhales a shaky breath and begins his transformation.

He puts the contacts in first. They succeed in rounding out his pupils and making his eyes blue, but they're only a dull imitation of what they once were. He then starts on the cover-up. It doesn't go on as smoothly as he'd hoped and, being unaccustomed to putting on make-up, it's chalky and uneven. It gets rid of the gray colour of his skin, replacing it with an orange tint. After a few minutes, his transformation having been complete, he surveys himself. He's still very unnatural looking, but he supposes it's certainly some kind of improvement.

Castiel doesn't look alive, but he looks a little less dead.

He hears the clack of practical heels coming down the hall and the same nurse from this morning walks in, holding a large plastic bag.

"Well, now don't you look handsome?" she says, giving him a grin. Castiel can't even bring himself to offer up a pretend smile. Undeterred, the nurse hands him the plastic bag containing all the belongings he was found with when he came to the treatment centre.

"The truck is waiting outside, it'll be leaving in about five minutes," the nurse informs him before taking her leave.

Castiel looks inside the bag. There's nothing in there other than the clothes he was buried in. It looks like they've been washed and repaired for the occasion. Trying not to think too hard about all the unspeakable things he did while wearing those same clothes, he shrugs off his white hospital garbs and changes, careful not to look at the deep lacerations adorning his torso (stitched up, but never to heal).

Before he leaves, he takes one last look in the mirror and almost doesn't recognize the person staring back. He's wearing black pants and shoes, a white dress shirt that he doesn't bother to tuck in, a dark blue tie that he hasn't done up properly, a black suit jacket, and his beloved beige trenchcoat. He touches the lapel of the coat and smiles slightly, fondly remembering how his mother always hated it, saying it was too big and that she had no idea what he was thinking when he bought it. Castiel wore it everywhere, and his mom complained, but he could tell that although she may not have liked the coat, she liked how it made Castiel feel. Bizarrely, it makes him feel safer somehow.

So, he's happy to have it as he marches toward the army-style truck waiting out front, nervous about entering this brave new world.

He takes a seat in the back of the truck with several other PDS sufferers. A quick roll call is taken, and then they're on their way.

The ride back to Lawrence is silent and filled with near palpable tension, everyone having severe mixed emotions about going back to their hometown. On the way, they pass buildings with things painted on them like "Beware rotters" and "God bless the HVF". One of the reasons Castiel is worried about going back is having to face the HVF, the Human Volunteer Force. During the Rising, the government's resources were spread very thin, leaving some places (including Lawrence, Kansas) to fend for themselves. So, HVF groups were formed. City folk turned militia men, protecting the living from the dead.

Castiel has heard that most HVF groups have disbanded at the government's behest, but some of the more dedicated groups still operate. However much the treatment centre and the government encourages everyone to go back and live their lives like they used to, Castiel knows that disgust and hostility are most likely what awaits him.

They arrive in the late evening, the sun almost entirely hidden beneath the horizon. He sees some people looking disapprovingly out their window at them, and Castiel is glad that most people are inside at this time of day. They start dropping people off at their houses and then they pull up to a modest looking bungalow seated atop a small hill in one of the more rural parts of Lawrence.

"Castiel Novak?" one of the guards calls out, reading the name off a clipboard. Castiel gets up and makes his way off the truck.

He stands at the end of his driveway, watching the truck pull away. He continues standing there even after the truck has disappeared from view.

Castiel doesn't want to go inside his house. No comfort awaits him there, only painful memories of what once was. There will be no warm welcome from his family. He won't hear his mother asking how his day was, or smell whatever delicious concoction she's making in the kitchen. He won't hear the soft strains of classical music as his father reads in the study, or smell the leftover scent from his cigars that he's forced to smoke outside (thanks to Castiel's mother). He won't hear his brothers bickering, and he won't have to stop Gabriel from doing something ridiculous to Samandriel like feeding him a dog biscuit as he did that one time (where Gabriel got the biscuit from Castiel doesn't know, they don't even have a dog). All that will greet him when he opens that door is an empty house, dusty with disuse.

He stands on the front step, his hand frozen on the doorknob. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and steps inside.

The air smells stale and the rooms look eerie. It's like someone took a snapshot of their life here and it got frozen in time. Castiel sees one of his mother's grocery lists on the table, some of Samandriel's toys and Gabriel's magic set strewn about, one of his father's large mystery novels open and face down on the coffee table where he'd left off. It's not long before Castiel marches up the stairs towards his room, keeping his eyes firmly fixed to the floor because seeing any more right now would be unbearable. He's not ready.

He gets to his bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him. He leans against the door for a moment with his eyes closed in an attempt to collect himself, before straightening up, shucking off his coat and tie, and heading towards his bed. He flops down on it, his eyes taking in the familiar sight of band posters, his rather impressive record collection, and the collage of quotes he'd taped to the wall nearest his bedside. His gaze at last settles upon a framed picture he keeps on his nightstand from the time he and his family vacationed to Maine. Castiel reaches out and traces the edge of the picture with his finger, remembering how much he loved that trip, how free he felt in Maine. The picture was taken when they visited a nearby lighthouse, stationed by the Atlantic Ocean. He stares at his family's smiling faces, including his own, flushed from the walk there and hair windswept. Happy, healthy, _alive_.

If Castiel were capable of crying, he would be doing it now. His face contorts slightly and he feels the telltale lump in his throat, but no tears come (his body now unable to produce them).

He keeps his eyes fixed on the picture until he can no longer keep them open, and falls into a deep, and thankfully dreamless, sleep.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

_ "Please, oh god please no!"_

_ The woman's screams permeate the air as he gets closer and closer, backing her into a corner of the flower shop. She thought it would be a good idea to lock up by herself. At night. Alone._

_ Perfect._

_ He tilts his head at her, continuing to walk forward. He sees her eyes dart around, frantically looking for escape. _

_ There is none._

_ He's a little over an arm's length away from her when she suddenly grabs a nearby vase, smashing it and brandishing a shard of glass in his direction, slashing violently at the air. He tilts his head again, very unfazed by this turn of events._

_ She lunges, slicing the makeshift blade down, but he's too fast for her. He grabs her arm, biting it and forcing her to drop the glass. She screams again, but he doesn't care. He feels nothing. He throws her to the ground and kneels next to her, pinning her down. She struggles, but his grip is firm. His gaze zeroes in on her neck and her eyes widen in fear. She knows what's coming._

_ Her scream turns to a gurgle as his teeth clamp down on her jugular. Warm blood floods his mouth in thick, hot spurts. _

_ He pulls his mouth away, licking his lips as he watches the woman shake, her hands scrabbling to her throat in a fruitless attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood continues to pool around her, framing her head like some twisted form of a halo, until her gurgles fade away to silence and her body lies limp on the floor. _

_ He's now free to take what he really wants, what he _needs.

_ He leans over and pulls out chunks of her hair, leaving one part of her scalp bare. He bites into the spot and pulls away strips of flesh with his fingers, popping them into his mouth. _

_ When the skull is revealed, he bashes the woman's head into the floor several times, causing the skull to crack. He peels it open and finds that delicious gray matter he's been waiting for. _

_ He starts to pull it out, eating it messily piece-by-piece, reveling in the glorious flavour and the satisfaction it provides his uncontrollable hunger._

_ However temporary that satisfaction may be. _

Castiel startles awake with a cry of despair. Sleep has become torturous for him now that he has to relive his past crimes against humanity almost every night in hideous, vivid clarity.

In a way, he thinks it would be better if they came every night like clockwork. That way, he could prepare himself for the inevitability of them. The uncertainty, the not knowing, makes the flashbacks that much worse.

Castiel buries his face in his hands, letting out a strangled sigh. He can still hear the woman's screams echo in his ears, can still smell the sickly sweet scent of flowers mixed with the acrid smell of blood, can still taste the metallic and salty flavour of her flesh on his tongue.

While in his untreated state, these feelings never bothered him. Guilt was non-existent. He saw nothing wrong with his actions, he was merely acting as any predator would when faced with his prey. Morality was irrelevant then.

But now, he feels all of it.

It's like a physical weight he carries around, dragging behind him as a ball to a chain. He can't lighten the load, nor break free, no matter how much he wants to. All the affirmations in the world won't make him forget. The best he can do is to try and move past it, to keep walking despite the weight trying to drag him backward.

The thing is, it sounds much easier in theory.

What Castiel knows he should be trying to do, and what he wants to do are two very different things. He knows he _should_ try to move on, to fully embrace his second life, but all he _wants _to do is nothing. He wants to sleep, to mindlessly watch television, maybe read a book or listen to music. And preferably never have to talk to anyone again.

He lies back in bed and weighs the pros and cons of both options, eyes tracing random shapes using the dots on his stucco ceiling, when the doorbell rings.

Castiel sits up, eyes wide. Who could be at the door? He never really had any close friends who would want to visit and it's not like he's made his return here public knowledge. He gets up, walking quietly downstairs and stepping up to the door cautiously. He leans up against the wood and peers through the peephole.

He sees a redheaded girl, maybe a bit older than him, standing there, smiling at nothing in particular. Her green eyes flick towards the peephole and Castiel jumps back, hoping she didn't see him.

"Castiel Novak?" she says. Castiel doesn't respond. How does she know his name? What does she want? "Come on, I saw you, I know you're in there!" the girl continues. Her voice sounds friendly and teasing, not at all the way Castiel assumes someone would speak if they wished him harm.

Against his better judgment, he opens the door a crack and peers through it.

"Yes?" he asks. The girl smiles brighter.

"There you are! Hi, my name's Charlie and I'll be your PDS community care officer," the girl – Charlie – replies.

Castiel tilts his head, not recognizing the term. He opens the door a bit wider, making himself more visible. He had taken his contacts out at some point during the night, and his cover-up had rubbed off due to his tossing and turning. He expects Charlie to be afraid, but she doesn't even flinch.

"Sorry, my what?" he asks.

"I've been assigned to give you your medication and to check up on you, see how you're doing and all that," she replies.

"Oh. Right."

They stand there awkwardly for a moment before Charlie leans to the side, looking pointedly towards the inside of the house and then back to Castiel.

"Um, would you like to come in?" Castiel asks, unsure of himself.

"Why, I'd love to!" Charlie replies, before walking past him into the house. She heads for the living room automatically as she starts to open the small bag she'd brought with her (presumably holding the medication), but Castiel halts her progress almost immediately.

"Not in there!" he says quickly.

He hasn't spent much time in any room in the house with the exception of his own bedroom. He's not ready yet, but he also doesn't relish the thought of anyone else occupying the unused space either, however temporarily. Charlie gives him an odd look, but stops walking. Castiel mentally curses himself, realizing how absurd he must sound.

"Would you mind if we went upstairs to do it? To my room?" he asks, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Charlie looks like she wants to ask questions, but she thankfully doesn't.

"Well, alright, just don't go puttin' the moves on me. I have a Taser and I'm not afraid to use it!" she says, giving Castiel a wink. She may have said it in a joking manner, but Castiel can tell that she's not lying. He chuckles softly, raising his hands in surrender. Charlie smiles, nodding in approval before leading the way up the stairs.

Castiel guides her to his bedroom and sits on the bed as Charlie gets out the vial of neurotriptyline and the device to administer it. Bizarrely, Castiel feels the need to make conversation.

"So, how does one become a 'PDS community care officer'?"

"I'm studying to become a nurse and I'm doing some work experience at the hospital here in town. Some government officials came around asking for volunteers and I thought, 'why not', right? The whole reason I decided to become a nurse in the first place was so that I could help people in need," Charlie replies, locking the neurotriptyline in place before approaching Castiel.

Castiel turns his back to her, feeling the tip of the device being inserted into the hole at the back of his neck. Charlie places the hand that's not holding the device firmly on his shoulder, in case he spasms.

"Alright, and one…two…_three._"

Castiel fists his hands in the bed sheets and shuts his eyes tight as the neurotriptyline invades his body. He turns back around once the feeling fades to find Charlie wincing in sympathy.

"Sorry. That does _not _look pleasant," she says. Castiel just shrugs and changes the subject.

"So, what you were saying before… You really think PDS sufferers qualify as 'people in need'?"

Charlie looks up from where she'd been putting away the medical supplies, her face serious.

"Of course! I mean, yeah, you guys did some major damage a while back, but you didn't know what you were doing! It's like… say an animal gets rabies and bites someone. That animal can't be blamed, right? It was out of their control. It's the same thing," Charlie says sincerely. Castiel smirks slightly.

"People have a tendency to shoot rabid animals."

"Okay, okay, so I might not be the best at coming up with analogies. Sue me," Charlie replies, smiling and rolling her eyes good-naturedly. Castiel chuckles.

As Charlie starts to wander the room a little, Castiel ponders his growing fondness for the girl. He finds himself _wanting _to be friends with her, which is an anomaly in itself. Charlie seems to be perpetually cheerful, but not in the same false way that the nurses at the treatment center displayed. Charlie is more genuine than that, and Castiel finds himself enjoying her company.

_Well, _he thinks, _there goes that "never having to talk to anyone again" idea. _

"Oh, no way!" Charlie suddenly exclaims, interrupting Castiel's musings. She's hovering around his large bookshelf. "Didn't peg you as a _Harry Potter _fan!" she says, pointing out his collection of all seven books. Castiel's bookshelf reflected his rather eclectic tastes – much like his tastes in music – and held both classics and contemporaries in a broad range of genres. Castiel smiles and nods.

"I spent years reading and re-reading them."

"Same here! Hermione is honestly my spirit animal."

"I even dressed up as Harry for Halloween once when I was little," Castiel says, randomly remembering the childhood memory with fondness.

"Pics or it didn't happen," Charlie says with a mischievous smile. Castiel laughs.

"Maybe some other time."

"I'm holding you to that." Charlie pauses before continuing, "Hey, you wanna get something to eat? I'm starved."

"Uh, I don't eat…?" Castiel replies, feeling rather uncomfortable. That was another thing that took some getting used to, the not being able to eat or drink.

"I know, but I do, and I thought you might like to get out of the house for a bit."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? With my… um… condition?" Castiel says, worried about people's reaction to him and not wanting Charlie to get caught in the crosshairs.

"I'm sure it'll be fine! I'll protect you, don't worry. Taser, remember?"

Castiel considers it for a moment. He's not exactly looking forward to interacting with others, but he did fine with Charlie so maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Alright," he agrees reluctantly.

"Awesome! I'll wait in the car while you put your face on or whatever," Charlie says before taking her leave.

Castiel doesn't bother changing out of his sleep rumpled clothes and dons his contacts and cover-up before throwing on his trenchcoat. He leaves the house, and gets into the passenger seat of Charlie's yellow Gremlin idling out front.

They're only in the car for a few minutes until they pull up to a diner entitled _Harvelle's Roadhouse_.

"I don't remember this place," Castiel says, getting out of the car.

"Yeah, they built it a couple years ago after the other place got destroyed by– uh, I mean, yeah. They built it a couple years ago."

They walk inside and take a seat in a booth by the window before a pretty blonde girl walks up to them holding a small notepad, presumably their waitress.

"Hey Charlie!"

"Oh, hi Jo," Charlie replies, uncharacteristically shy. Castiel tilts his head, puzzled, before Charlie continues, "This is Castiel."

"Hi Castiel. So, what can I get for you guys?" Jo asks kindly. Either Jo didn't notice what he is, or she did and she's ignoring it; whichever option it is, Castiel is grateful.

Charlie places her order while Castiel orders a glass of water that he's not going to drink. He's still wondering why Charlie was acting so strange, and it's not until he notices Charlie unabashedly checking Jo out as she walks away that Castiel gets it. He smirks knowingly as Charlie turns back to look at him.

"Shut up," she says jokingly.

"I didn't say anything!" Castiel replies, feigning innocence. Charlie rolls her eyes, smiling.

"Yeah, whatever."

"So, how do you two know each other?" Castiel finds a strange pleasure in being the one that gets to tease Charlie for a change.

"Her mom owns the place, and I guess you could say I'm something of a regular," she says, wriggling her eyebrows before letting out a small sigh. "Unfortunately, anyone with eyes could see that she clearly has a thing for Dean Winchester, even though she'll deny it to the grave."

"Who's Dean Winchester?" Castiel asks.

"Just a friend of mine. He's–" Charlie pauses as she looks away, and then continues, apparently having noticed something, "He's right over there, actually. Hey, Dean!"

Castiel follows her gaze and his eyes fall upon a very handsome boy, about his age, sitting by the bar. The boy – Dean – gives Charlie a wave, and starts to walk over to them.

Castiel gives him a once-over. Dean is leanly muscular, although he makes it hard to tell through his loose-fitting military-style attire. He has short sandy blonde hair that sticks up at the front, smatterings of freckles cover his tanned skin, and as he gets closer Castiel sucks in a quick breath at the most stunning green eyes he's ever seen.

"What's up?" Dean asks, smiling at Charlie. Charlie is smiling back, but her expression seems… worried?

"Nothin' much. Just hanging out with my new friend, Castiel."

"Hey man, how's it go–" Dean starts, before he suddenly stops. His eyes narrow and he leans closer to Castiel. Uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny, Castiel leans back a bit. When Dean stands up straight again, the friendly expression on his face is completely gone, replaced with a look of malice. He ignores Castiel completely and regards Charlie instead.

"What the fuck, Charlie," he hisses. Castiel is utterly confused until he reads the three letters written on the band proudly displayed on Dean's arm: _H.V.F. _His eyes widen in fear.

"Dean, don't," Charlie says, her eyes pleading.

"How could you bring _it _here?" Dean replies, voice filled with contempt.

"_He _is my _friend_," Charlie says pointedly, her eyes blazing now.

"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble–" Castiel starts to say before Dean interrupts him by grabbing a handful of his shirt and pulling him out of the booth and into a standing position.

"Then you never should have risen from the goddamn grave."

Castiel is just beginning to wonder in horror if he's about to be in his first fight, when an older woman rushes out from the back room, apparently having heard the commotion.

"Dean Winchester, you let go of that boy, you hear me?" she demands sternly, hands firmly stationed on her hips.

"But, Ellen, he's a–" Dean starts, but Ellen cuts him off.

"He's a paying customer is what he is. Take your hands off him. _Now._"

Dean gives Castiel one more cold glare before practically throwing him back in the booth and stalking out the door. Ellen, who Castiel quickly realizes must be the owner, hurries up to them.

"This one's on me, alright?" she says by means of apology, gesturing at their food.

"Thank you. For what you did," Castiel says quietly. Ellen smiles kindly at him.

"Everyone is welcome at the Roadhouse, and when I say everyone, I mean _everyone_," she says and Castiel's eyes widen slightly in surprise as he grasps her meaning. She nods at them and takes her leave. Charlie immediately turns to Castiel.

"Shit, I'm so sorry about Dean! I swear he's not usually such a–"

"Complete and utter asshole?" Castiel finishes for her, trying to make light of the situation. Charlie chuckles and nods.

"His dad is the leader of the town's HVF, so Dean's pretty, well, into it, I guess. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine, Charlie. Seriously, don't worry about it," Castiel says, waving a hand. Charlie sighs before pushing her plate away.

"You wanna get outta here? I've lost my appetite."

Castiel nods, and they leave the restaurant. Luckily, Dean is nowhere to be seen in the parking lot and Castiel finds himself sincerely hoping that he never has to encounter that jerk again.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

A couple weeks later, Castiel finds himself in his bedroom with Charlie, both of them sitting on his bed in companionable silence as they listen to a few of Castiel's records.

Castiel had been surprised at how fast he had managed to settle into some sense of a routine in this new life of his. Every day, Charlie would come by, toting her medication bag, to inject him and see how he's doing. After that first day, she never ventured into the living room, always heading up the stairs to the bedroom as per Castiel's wishes. Once the injection was done with, Charlie would usually stay for a while, just keeping Castiel company. The sudden friendship was new to Castiel, though bizarrely welcome.

What Castiel appreciates most about Charlie's visits is that she knows when to keep them short. On the days where Castiel wakes up filled with self-loathing and anger and the agonizing ache of loss, Charlie only stays briefly, just long enough to administer the neurotriptyline, and they exchange little more than hellos and goodbyes. Castiel finds it to be a testament to her nursing skills that she is so perceptive of a patient's moods. These bouts of unwanted emotion don't last long, only a day or two, and then Castiel is able to resume his usual easy comradery with Charlie.

Charlie never brings up his bad days in conversation, knowing that he just needs his space to deal. So, he's rather surprised by her sudden curiosity.

"Hey, Castiel?"

"Yeah?" he replies, absentmindedly tapping his hand on his leg to the beat of the record.

"Why do we never spend time in any of the other rooms?" she asks innocently. Castiel can only blink owlishly at her for a few moments before fumbling for an answer.

"Too many memories. Not ready yet," Castiel murmurs. Charlie nods.

"You know you can confide in me, right? I mean, I don't hang around here just to shoot you up with chemicals," she says, smirking. Castiel chuckles.

"I know, I know. It's just hard to talk about, that's all. I hope you understand."

"Don't worry, I do. More so than you'd think, actually." Charlie then gets a look on her face, more serious and sad than Castiel has ever seen her look and he immediately regrets whatever he might have done or said to put that expression on her face. She takes a deep breath and continues speaking. "When I was about eight, I went to my first sleepover. I was so excited; I went on and on about it for days before it happened. But, once I got there and it was time to go to bed, I got scared. I'd never really slept away from home before. So, I called my parents to come get me and they agreed. I waited and waited for them to come, but they never did. Instead, the police showed up, saying there'd been a terrible accident." Charlie pauses for a moment. She looks up at the ceiling and, though clearly trying to hide it, Castiel can see that she's blinking back unwelcome tears.

"I– I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, Charlie," Castiel says sincerely. Charlie waves her hand dismissively.

"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that anything you may be feeling, the loneliness, the guilt, you're not alone. If anyone can understand what you're going through, it's me. If you ever need to talk, I'll be here. Just… don't feel like you owe me an explanation because I told you my sob story, okay?" Charlie says, smiling weakly. Castiel smiles back and, in lieu of a reply, pulls Charlie in for a brief hug.

He wishes with every fiber of his undead being that he could feel it. He knows her arms are around him, but only by the same sort of detached pressure you'd feel if you poked your leg when it was asleep. After a moment, they pull away, Charlie quickly swiping her sleeve across her eyes.

"Can I give you some advice though?" she asks hesitantly. Castiel nods. "Don't let the grief take over your life. Or, more specifically in your case, your house."

"I don't want it to, but… everywhere I look… all I see are these rooms, these spaces, that are so irrevocably _lacking _all the life they used to contain," replies Castiel, trying to pull suitable words from the English language to convey the confusing thoughts swirling around in his grief-addled mind.

"That's because you've left everything as it was, like you're waiting for them to come back. But… they're not coming back, Castiel."

"You don't think I know that?" Castiel snaps at her.

"Sorry, pointing out the obvious, I know. All I'm saying is that you can't let your house become some sort of tomb. As hard as it is, you've got to let the dead lie," Charlie says. Castiel gives her a pointed look. "Oh shut up, you know what I mean."

Castiel nods, heaving a sigh. Charlie places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Like I said before, you don't have to do it alone. I can help you clean the place up a little bit. What do ya say?" she asks. Castiel is hesitant, feeling scared and unsure. Seeing his look of trepidation, Charlie continues, "It doesn't mean you're going to forget, Castiel; it just means you'll be one step closer to moving on. How about we give it a shot tomorrow? So you can sleep on it."

"Okay," Castiel murmurs, and Charlie smiles.

"Great!"

The conversation then peters off into trying to find something to do, and Charlie suggests throwing on _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ and Castiel quickly agrees. He grabs his laptop and sets it between them, finding a link to the movie online.

About fifty minutes into the movie is the familiar scene where Harry sits at the window in his dormitory during his first night at Hogwarts, looking sad and a bit despondent. For the very first time, Castiel thinks he might understand Harry. During his reading of the books and viewings of the movies, he – and presumably everyone else who experienced the story – felt bad for Harry at having lost his parents. But it was a more surface sadness, like one might feel when they read a tragic story in the newspaper. It makes you sad, but it has no real impact on you. Now, however, Castiel understands completely. As Harry looks out the window, he gets the smallest smile on his face and Castiel finds himself mirroring the gesture.

If Harry can find some semblance of hope then perhaps Castiel can as well.

Shortly after they finish the movie, Charlie takes her leave. Castiel runs a finger along his bookshelf, scanning the familiar titles, and picks out _Cat's Cradle _by Kurt Vonnegut, figuring he would spend some time re-reading it for the umpteenth time.

Not more than a couple pages in, he tosses the book aside, finding himself unable to really concentrate on the words.

So, he decides to take an early evening walk.

It's not that Castiel is particularly fond of exercise or anything like that, but when the sun starts to go down, he enjoys taking a leisurely stroll through the forest beside his house to a small clearing where he can watch the sky change colours in a breathtaking display of its sunset.

He takes a minute to apply his cover-up and insert his contacts, not wanting to risk venturing out of the house without them, no matter how isolated the area. Another of the many things he appreciates about Charlie's friendship is that he doesn't have to hide with her. Since the day they met, he's never felt the need to put on his artificial living façade. Mask or not, she treats him no differently.

Though he's fond of Charlie, a small niggling part of his mind almost craves her scorn. That same part speaks to him in its convincing and deceptively logical tones, saying that he doesn't deserve friendship, only hatred and disgust; that a murderer should know no kindness, for no kindness was shown to the victims of his monstrous crimes.

And a repentant murderer is still a murderer all the same.

Castiel shakes his head slightly, trying to remove those sorts of thoughts from his head, for the time being at least. He grabs his trenchcoat and throws it over his casual outfit comprised of t-shirt and jeans, before leaving the house.

He cuts across his lawn, hastily retreating into the forest. He inhales the pleasant scent of nature through his nose and feels the corners of his mouth quirk upwards in a smile. He's missed this, he suddenly realizes. Castiel deftly makes his way through the forest, ducking under branches and stepping over obstacles, somehow still remembering where to go. It's strange how such mundane things come back to him, as if he'd never been away at all.

In less than ten minutes, he's standing at the edge of where the dense thicket spreads out, leaving empty spaces of field in its place. Castiel walks forward, re-familiarizing himself with the place, before lying down in the long grass. He puts his arms behind his head and lets his gaze settle upon the sky.

The hours pass by quickly as he watches the sky change its colours, offering up a wide range from blue to orange to pink. He notes absent-mindedly that while the setting sun paints its vast array of hues, Castiel's mind is a blank canvas, blessedly devoid of all thoughts. He ponders the interesting contradiction for a moment before letting the thought slip away from him like all the others.

As the sky creeps its way to the dark blue signaling the beginning of nightfall, Castiel stands up, brushing himself off as he does so, and makes his way back through the forest.

He estimates that he's about halfway home, when the sounds of an obvious struggle reach his ears.

He has a brief inner debate with himself about whether or not he should just keep going before making the decision to cautiously walk towards the sounds that are getting louder as he nears their source.

As he gets closer, Castiel can see two figures fighting. He hides behind a tree, his head peaking out in order to safely view what's happening.

Two men roll around on the forest floor, each trying to get the upper hand. Castiel can tell by the primal growls and the tattered, dirty clothing, that one of the men is an untreated PDS sufferer. Castiel tries to see who the rabid is fighting, but all he can glean is flashes of green camouflage, until suddenly the pair rolls again and although he only sees the face for a split second, he recognizes it instantly.

Dean Winchester.

He must be on patrol, Castiel realizes as he watches, his eyes wide with fear, as Dean gets pinned to the ground, the rabid's jaws snapping dangerously close to Dean's throat as black drool leaks from its mouth in a gruesome display. Castiel can see Dean trying to reach for his gun, when it's smacked out of his hand and out of his reach by the rabid.

Then, whatever was keeping Castiel immobilized suddenly snaps and he's running as fast as his stiff legs can carry him towards the fray. He dashes over to where Dean's silver pistol lies and picks it up, the unfamiliar object feeling awkward in his hands. He points it experimentally at the pair still tussling on the ground, but quickly realizes he can't risk hitting Dean in his inexperience. So, not knowing what else to do, he points the gun straight up in the air and fires several times.

The loud noises do as intended as the rabid looks up, momentarily distracted, and a moment is apparently all Dean needs to push off his assailant and scramble backwards.

Not quite knowing what he's doing, Castiel drops the gun and steps forward in front of Dean, approaching the untreated PDS sufferer hesitantly. He stops walking immediately as the confused looking rabid lets out a particularly vicious growl.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Dean hisses from behind, but Castiel just ignores him and focuses on the rabid.

"It's okay, no one's going to hurt you. You and I, we're the same. See?" Castiel says, his voice shaking slightly with fear and adrenaline as he swipes a hand forcefully across his face, succeeding in rubbing off some of his cover-up. He then quickly takes out one of his contacts as he steps closer to the rabid, who's no longer growling, but giving Castiel a look of curiosity mingled with suspicion. Castiel signals behind his back for Dean to go around as he keeps talking to the rabid, making sure the focus remains on him and not Dean.

Dean thankfully gets the message and steps off to the side, starting to walk around them, his path hidden by trees. Castiel keeps his placating talk going as Dean sneaks up behind the rabid, brandishing a pair of handcuffs he had procured from somewhere on his person. Then, between one blink and the next, the untreated PDS sufferer has his hands cuffed behind his back, while Dean hastily steps away to join Castiel where he stands.

"It's alright, don't worry, you're safe. You just have to come with us," Castiel continues as Dean picks up his gun from where Castiel had dropped it.

"Fuck! You used up all my ammo!" Dean says angrily.

"A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed," Castiel snaps back.

"I didn't need your help, I could have handled it!"

"I sincerely doubt that, but perhaps we can argue semantics later?" Castiel replies frostily, gesturing towards the unhappy rabid. Dean grunts and picks up a large stick off the ground, jabbing the rabid with it, making him start to shuffle forward. Castiel looks at the display disapprovingly, but knows that their options are limited. He starts walking with them.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Dean asks him accusingly.

"What are you going to do if he suddenly tries to attack you again?" Castiel asks in way of reply.

"I've got it covered."

"You've got a stick, and a gun with no bullets."

"Yeah, and who's fault is that?"

"Once again, your gratitude is overwhelming," Castiel says sarcastically. Dean just glares at him, but offers no further argument as they continue walking.

Castiel is surprised at himself. He's usually not so… snarky. But, then again, he's never had the (dis)pleasure of meeting someone like Dean Winchester.

_He treats you how you deserve to be treated, _the little voice inside him remarks, and maybe it's right. How can Castiel direct any negative feelings towards Dean for his censure towards him?After all, saving one life doesn't change the amount of lives he's taken away.

They walk for a few more minutes – presumably to the clinic where any untreated PDS sufferers are held until they can be transferred to a treatment facility – in a tension-filled silence, before Castiel decides to speak what he'd been mulling over in his mind.

"Look, about that day in the Roadhouse…" he says, trailing off. Dean interrupts him before he can say anything else.

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for that, you're going to be waiting a hell of a long time," Dean says acerbically.

"No, just the opposite actually. I– I don't blame you," Castiel continues timidly. Dean looks a bit surprised at the lack of a snappy comeback, but doesn't comment on it. "I know what I am and I know what I did. I also know what you are and what you do. I understand now why coming face-to-face with the embodiment of everything you've learned to despise in your hometown bar would elicit such a reaction as yours. I'm not looking for forgiveness, nor do I think I deserve it. I just hope you know – and I'm not using this as any kind of excuse for my actions, I swear – that I never asked to be 'risen from the goddamn grave' as you so aptly put it," Castiel finishes, taking a nervous breath as he waits for Dean's reply. To his surprise, Dean snorts.

"Anyone ever tell you that you talk like you've swallowed a fucking dictionary?" he asks arrogantly. Castiel smirks slightly, and then Dean continues in a serious manner, "I don't care whether you asked for it or not. It happened. And the HVF were the only ones that could help when everything went to shit. There are people like Ellen and Jo and Charlie who just think the past should stay the past and all that kumbayah crap, but they seem to be forgetting just how bad it got. And it's part of my job to help them remember," Dean finishes menacingly. Castiel doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he changes the subject somewhat.

"You can't have been that old during the Rising… What, 13? 14, maybe?" Castiel says, a hint of pity unintentionally leaking into his voice. It's his fault that Dean had to start fighting when he was barely more than a boy. _Myfaultmyfaultmyfault, _the guilty mantra plays on a loop in his head.

"That's none of your business," Dean snaps. Castiel continues his questioning, unheeded.

"What about your father? Is he the one that taught you to–"

"Drop it, Cas!" Dean yells. Castiel is silent for a moment.

"Castiel," he finally mumbles.

"What?" Dean replies, annoyed.

"My name, it's Castiel, not Cas," Castiel explains, unsurprised that Dean hadn't remembered his name. Dean rolls his eyes.

"I know your friggin' name, not many guys walkin' around with a weird ass name like 'Castiel', are there? It's a mouthful so I shortened it. Got a problem with that?" Dean demands. Castiel shakes his head.

"No, I, uh, like it."

"Whatever. We're here."

They come to the edge of the forest that leads into the main part of town, the clinic's lights visible in what has now become nighttime. Castiel pops in his other contact and keeps his head down.

They walk into the clinic and two men immediately greet them by securing the rabid and locking him in a large cage in the corner of the room, where two other untreated PDS sufferers shuffle around the perimeter of their confinement, moaning.

Dean then heads to the front desk, where the receptionist hands him a few bills, which Dean pockets, and then they're out the door.

Just in time for a Jeep to pull up.

"It's about time son! Where'd you get off to?" a man asks Dean gruffly, getting out of his vehicle. If Castiel had the proper blood flow necessary to pale in fear, he'd be doing it now as the infamous John Winchester, leader of the HVF, walks up to them.

"Caught a rotter on patrol. Just dropping it off," Dean replies, to which John nods approvingly.

Castiel knows running will only make the situation worse, so he stands a little bit behind Dean, keeping his head down and hoping desperately not to be noticed.

So, naturally, he's noticed.

"Who's this?" John asks.

"He helped me bring in the rabid. He was just leaving, actually," Dean says pointedly, glaring at Castiel in what can only be considered warning.

"It was nice to meet you, sir," Castiel mumbles, starting to walk away.

"Not so fast. Come here, boy," John says, his tone sounding… off. Castiel swallows and walks back to John, still keeping his head down.

"You know, you should really look at someone when they're talking to you. It's only polite," John continues. It's then that Castiel knows he's been found out. With nothing but dread in the pit of his stomach and knowing that he has no other choice, Castiel looks up.

And is immediately pinned against the wall, a large hand clasped tightly around his throat, squeezing. It's not that it hurts (though it's not particularly comfortable), and technically Castiel doesn't _have _to breathe, but neither of those things makes the situation any less frightening.

"Dean, would you care to explain to me why you let a _corpse_ help you today?" John asked, his voice terrifyingly calm. Dean made the mistake of not responding quickly enough. "_You answer me when I talk to you, son!"_ John yelled.

"I ran out of ammo," Dean mumbled. Castiel instantly misses all of Dean's cockiness and bravado; he'd rather deal with that than have to watch this heartbreakingly vulnerable version of him.

"Sorry, what was that? Couldn't quite hear you," John says, his voice back to that eerie calm.

"I ran out of ammo," Dean repeats, louder this time.

"How many goddamn times do I have to tell you to bring more rounds?!"

"I… I must have forgot."

"You _forgot?!_"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"'Sorry' isn't going to save you from an attack is it?"

"No, sir."

"Just get in the car, Dean," John demands. Dean looks like he wants to argue, but John adds a stern "_Now_" and Dean obeys, glancing briefly at Castiel before getting in the vehicle.

"And as for you. If I _ever _catch you even _looking _at my son again, I'll kill you on sight, do we understand each other?" John asks. Castiel manages as much of a nod as he can in John's chokehold, before John lets go, climbing into the driver's side of his Jeep and driving away, leaving Castiel in his dust.

As Cas starts the rather long walk home, he thinks somewhat sarcastically that while this evening really hadn't been quite as relaxing as he'd originally intended, he'd at least have something interesting to tell Charlie tomorrow.


End file.
